Elysium
by LinzRW
Summary: May 4, 2013. The nuclear missile struck NYC. The Avengers failed. The Chitauri invaded and enslaved humanity. August 12, 2019. They may be scattered and broken, but the Avengers aren't dead just yet.
1. After The Missile

**A/N: Someone asked me in a review if I ever considered writing an Avengers or Supernatural fanfiction. The answer is that I just never had any ideas for an Avengers or Supernatural fanfiction. But then I went and saw Thor 2 (which doesn't take place in this universe...) and I came up with this story. Apocalyptic Avengers! **

**Yes, there are OC main characters in this story. Why? Because in order to give the full picture of this fall Earth, I need to have characters other than the Avengers. Simple fact of life. Also, ****I apologize right now for the characters who have died before this story even starts. I love all the Avengers characters, but realistically, some of them would have died in the Invasion. I am trying to stay as true to the cinematic canon as possible, but please let me know if I make any mistakes regarding abilities or worlds or whatever. **

**Read, review, and enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter One: After The Missile**

Maisie Wilcox tipped her head back and felt the cool breeze brush against her pale cheeks. Lights flashed across the blue sky and she could hear the faint crack of magic on magic. White lights against red—a burst of green effulged by yellow. The Chitauri and the Asgardians were fighting again, somewhere beyond the hemisphere of Earth. They were always fighting. At least once every few months, the sky would illuminated throughout the night and the humans would watch with vague hope as the Asgardians fought with swords and magic. But every time, the humans were filled with disappointment as the lights faded and the Asgardians were forced to retreat.

Maisie forced herself to look away from the sky. She would be disappointed this time as she had every other time.

The road from the Boston Colony was long and broken. Along it stumbled a line of humans, tied together by a white cord, which was sizzling with electricity. The slaves stumbled along, their feet red and sore with blisters. Maisie was near the end of the line—a tall, black-haired woman behind her and a short, bearded man in front. They were all worn and tired with shadows under their eyes. Nothing new, after years of manual labor, all humans had the same, defeated look to them. Any strength they might have once possessed had been drain from they, one torturous day at a time.

The Chitauri officers had brought the humans from the Boston Colony on the back of a Leviathan, one of the smaller ones. The journey had been much easier on the Leviathan, the wild, cyborg beast that twisted and turned like a fat worm as it moved. However, the Leviathans refused to get too near to New York City, so the humans were forced to travel the last few miles on foot, egged onward by the Chitauri, of course.

Around New York City, the land was brittle and dry. The grass had long ago turned brown and the road was cracked and splitting. If she looked far enough ahead, beneath the sky, streaked with the lights of the Chitauri-Asgardians battle, Maisie could see the vague outline of New York City.

A sharp growl pieces Maisie's ears and she turned to face the warped, metallic face of the Chitauri officer.

She had never been able to get over the initial shock of the Chitauri faces. They were some sort of half-living and half-cyborg beings. They possessed puffy, pink skin around their eyes, but silver-metallic bands covered the rest of their heads and bodies—Maisie wasn't entirely sure what they were and she had given up trying to find out. They came from a different world, a different place, they'd come without warning—or perhaps there had been warning and the public had been given no notice—and taken Earth from the humans.

As she stumbled along the dirt road to New York City, Maisie recalled the news broadcasts on that dreadful day six years ago. She'd been in English class, listening to the teacher drone on about _Othello_, when the news of the Invasion came. The teacher had stopped lecturing and instead turned on the projector so that her students could watch the Chitauri descend from the sky and tear apart New York City.

Maisie still remembered, with perfect clarity, the cheers of her classmates when they saw the Avengers arrive. Captain America—dressed in red, white, and blue, the symbol of patriotism. Iron Man—his metal armor impenetrable as he fired weapons at the enemy. Thor—the god from Asgard who swung about a hammer. The Hulk—a green beast of pure muscle and strength. Hawkeye—the man who could hit any target with an arrow even with his eyes closed. The Black Widow—a woman whose fighting talents were unmatched.

They were Earth's heroes. They were meant to protect humanity from threats like the Chitauri, from threats like Loki Laufeyson. And perhaps, perhaps the Avengers would have succeeded in the end. But the moment the American government thought that the Avengers had lost, the nuclear missile had been unleashed.

Maisie remembered watching as the gray cloud appeared over New York City. She remembered the pale horror on her classmates faces. One girl, Allie, her father had been on a business trip in New York. Maisie remembered the smoke clearing and New York City, the might New York City, was nothing more than rubble and chemicals.

And the Chitauri continue to descend from the sky.

The missile may have killed the Chitauri and Leviathan that had already invaded New York City, but the government had failed to realize that the army was near infinite. More Chitauri and more Leviathans came. They spread across the state of New York like a disease. In all directions across the globe, led by the great Loki Laufeyson, the Chitauri had come ad conquered.

A wry smile spread across Maisie's face as she walked.

For all his troubles, Loki, in the end, got nothing. A month after the victory over Earth had been confirmed, the Chitauri leader had betrayed Loki. The god-like Loki, who all of Earth's residents (the few that survived the Invasion) had learned to fear, was reduced to nothing but an outcast, driven from his place in Asgard and driven from his place on Earth.

Maisie couldn't help but feel a sense of justice. Not that it made her position any better.

The Chitauri officer at head of the slave line tugged on the cord. Maisie felt a surge of electricity run through her wrists and the rest of her body. She twitched, but, through gritted teeth, managed to suppress the scream of pain. The man in front of Maisie let out a low, long whimper while the woman scoffed in outrage. Maisie's wrists burned, but she continued to walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the outline of New York City.

She had not seen the city except on the television six years ago. After the missile had been dropped and it was made clear that the Chitauri were not to be stopped, the teacher had allowed her students to go home. Maisie and her older sister, Jo, had driven home as soon as possible and watched the last clip of the news broadcast on their television. The demolition of New York City and the Avengers—the ones that had survived, standing amongst the rubble. The god-like Thor, supporting injuries that dyed his body red, looked at the destruction and wept. While the Hulk held the unconscious Black Widow in a giant, green hand and trembled. That was it. That was all that had survived.

"Remember," called out the Overseer. "You are looking for a blue light. A power source that was lost in the nuclear explosion. Remember. Whoever finds this power source will receive a place in the Helio."

Maisie glanced at the Overseer and felt a wave of disgust. Everything from his thin lips to his green eyes gave Maisie shivers of dislike. The Overseer, and others like him, had decided to make the best of the Invasion. He had learned the language of the Chitauri and worked as a communicator between the rulers and the slaves. As a reward for his work, the Overseer was given a place in the Helio, the wealthy section of the Boston Colony—where people were fed, pampered, and had to act as though they liked the Chitauri.

Maisie shifted and felt the cord rub against her wrists. She twitched, recalling the pain of the electrical shock.

She heard a gasp from the woman behind her and Maisie lifted her gaze. They were drawing into full view of New York City and, for the first time, Maisie saw, with her own eyes, the ruin of a once great city. She had never known that something so terrible could also be beautiful.

There were no more buildings. Huge pieces of cement and metal, pieces of what was once a building, were sprawled about, cast on top of one another. What had once been huge a monument was now nothing more than a pile of rubble. Streets were no more. Houses no more. Cars no more. New York City had become a graveyard of chemicals, cement, rusted metal, and broken glass. Ruin. A wasteland.

"We have to go in there?" asked some idiot at the front of the line.

The Overseer nodded to one of the Chitauri and the officer grabbed the cord again. Maisie was ready for the electric shock and she felt her whole body shudder.

"You were brought here to find the power source," said the Overseer.

The slaves remained silent, knowing that any question would cause them to receive another electric shock. However, they all stared at the Overseer, waiting for him to explain. New York City was still filled with dangerous chemicals. They had all known other expeditions to return and some people to become sick, their skin red and burning from the exposure. And yet, the Chitauri insisted on sending an expedition of slaves into the chemical wasteland once a month to find this power source.

"Remember," said the Overseer. "There is no escape."

Maisie watched with hollowed eyes as the Chitauri officers started to free the humans from the cord that bound them.

Oh yes, she thought, we remember.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff moved through the cave hallways as though she owned them. She did not look left or right as she passed by the members of Shield's Rebellion. They were all watching her, of course, but she did not spare them a glance. She had learned long ago that to make eye contact with them was to encourage rumors—whispers about how she had failed humanity. Natasha had learned to ignore the whispers. She had failed humanity no less than anyone else had. She did not see them in New York City on the fateful day.

At the end of the hallway, Natasha took a right. The metal door with chipped red paint was closed and locked, but Natasha had a key. She slid her card through the pad and waited. The light flared red. Natasha suppressed a groan before running the access card through again. This time the light was green and Natasha pushed the door open with her shoulder.

After the Invasion, Shield had been forced to make due. They salvaged what technology they could and, after the initial defenses fell, went underground—literally. Natasha had spent the last six years living in a bunker with two other women. The only times Natasha had been to the surface was to carry out missions for Shield. Other than that, she wandered the caves, visited the gym, avoided the gossiping members of Shield as much as possible, and, of course, visited Bruce.

Behind the red-chipped door was Bruce Banner's containment cell—a large contained made of metal and a special type of reinforced glass—so Bruce could look at the world, but not touch it.

To be fair to Shield, Bruce had been uncontrollable for a while. They had returned to SHIELD (the name was in all capitals back then, much more formal looking, thought Natasha) after the missile and watched the rapid decline of humanity. Nick Fury had tried to get them off their asses—to do something about the Chitauri, but both Natasha and Bruce were too ashamed and too frustrated to move. They could not rid themselves for the faces they had left behind—Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton. Only Thor had survived, but he had been forced to return to Asgard after the injuries he had suffered.

Bruce and Natasha had been forced to face the destruction of humanity alone.

And then, the news of Elizabeth Ross's death came.

Natasha suspected that Fury had not meant to tell Bruce about his ex-girlfriend's death, but the question had been asked and Fury no longer had the heart not to answer. Bruce had not been able to contain his emotions and the monster came out. The monster came out frequently enough that, five years ago, Fury had been forced to put Bruce in a cage, seal him off from the rest of the surviving human race. Bruce hadn't put up much of a fight. He accepted his fate without question and now he remained in the cage—reading books, doing research, and chatting with his visitors (AKA Natasha, because who else would visit the Hulk?).

"You haven't slept, have you?" asked Natasha as she lowered herself into the metal chair facing Bruce's cage.

She could see him through the glass, lying on his back and staring up at the metal ceiling. He rolled his head to the side and smiled at her, though the smile did not reach his eyes. Natasha didn't think he had truly smiled in six years. Then again, neither had she.

"I was thinking," said Bruce.

"You're always thinking," said Natasha. "What else is new?"

"Not a lot of new happens in here," said Bruce. He moved to an upright position. "Have you been keeping busy?"

"Not recently," said Natasha. "I've been going to the gym more—if you can count that."

"No missions?"

"No. Things have been quiet," said Natasha.

"The Chitauri have sent out no new expeditions to New York City?"

Natasha shook her head. "It's about time though. As soon as we get word, I'll bring out a squad and we'll see who we can scrounge up."

Bruce tapped his fingers against his knee. "They're going to find it one day."

"Not if we find it first," said Natasha roughly.

"We've looked," said Bruce. "We've looked and we've looked."

"I know," said Natasha. "We were out there every day, looking through the rubble in those stuffy suits." She let out a dry laugh. "They didn't help much. Clare's face still burned from prolonged exposure."

Bruce got to his feet and walked over to the minifridge on the far side of his cage. He pulled out a bottle of water and took a swing from it before placing it back on the shelf.

"You still change in the middle of the night," said Natasha. "I thought you said the dreams went away."

Bruce glanced at her. "The doctor told you then."

"Yes."

"I didn't want you to worry about me."

"Of course I'm going to worry about you," said Natasha. "I know what you've been through."

"Do you?" Bruce's voice was taut.

"Not all of it," said Natasha. "I'm not you. But we're both Avengers here, Bruce. We're the last two."

"Thor."

"Isn't here," said Natasha. "Even if he failed with us, he was able to leave. He's in Asgard now, where they won't look at him and blame him for losing their home."

"He still fights," said Bruce.

"Yes," said Natasha. "But that's all."

"Sometimes," said Bruce, moving to sit back down on the bed. "That's what we need."

"Do you want to fight?" asked Natasha. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the metal chair, watching him. Bruce seemed to have gotten smaller over the years. His cheeks were gaunt and the clothes that he had been given when first arriving were too big around the shoulders and hips. He looked like a defeated man as he sat on his cot with his head bowed forward ever so slightly.

"No," said Bruce. "I'm done."

"But the other guy," said Natasha. "He's not."

"No," said Bruce. "But that's what this cage is for."

* * *

Thor Odinson tried not to throw his hammer in frustration. The last time he had done so had caused severe damage to the bridge. Thor glanced up at Heimdall as the golden room filled with light and Sif arrived, her face twisted with anger.

"We cannot find a crack in their defenses!" cried Sif, sheathing her weapon and moving to stand beside Thor. "Again and again we have battled them and again and again they have repelled us. I do not recall the Chitauri from legend being so organized!"

There was a flash of light during Sif's speech and the Warrior's Three arrived.

"The Chitauri are under new management," said Hogun. "Thanos has them disciplined."

"Where are the others?" asked Volstagg, glancing around the golden room with walls of circles and clocks.

"They had gone ahead," said Heimdall. "Some were injured severely."

"I don't enjoy fighting Chitauri," said Fandral, running his fingers through his yellow hair. "They have no sense of subtlety."

"That is a good thing," said Sif. "It make it easier to deceive them."

"If only it was easy to deceive them," said Hogun. "We have been driven back over a hundred times already."

As he listened to his friends argue, Thor tried to settle the burning rage in his stomach. Six human years had passed since he had lost Earth to the Chitauri and not a dent had been made in the Chitauri's defenses. The battles they had fought and lost were numerous—and what did they have to show for it? Nothing. Injured and dead Asgardians. Rebellions across the other seven realms. Earth still in the hands of the Chitauri.

Thor gritted his teeth and started the long walk down the bridge back towards Asgard. His friends followed him, continuing their debate. Thor listened for a moment and found that they were voicing his own doubts and fears.

"How much longer will the other Asgardians support this fight?" asked Hogun. "We have lost so many and gained nothing. Will they not, at some point, say that we must let Earth go?"

"We cannot just let them go," said Volstagg. "They are part of the Nine Realms."

"But they have turned against us," said Sif.

"The humans have not," said Volstagg. "The humans are enslaved by the Chitauri. Are we to abandon the humans?"

Thor cringed at the thought of enslavement. Jane Foster's face flashed in Thor's mind and even though he tried to suppress the image, he could not forget her sweet face with determined eyes and a disarming smile. The thought of Jane being enslaved to the Chitauri sent shivers of fear down Thorin's spine and fueled the rage in his chest. He wanted to turn around and demand that Heimdall send him back to Earth. Let him fight the Chitauri without ceasing until they surrender Jane to him and left Earth in peace.

Thor gripped his hammer, Mjolnir, and wished that things were that easy. They weren't. The Chitauri had worked hard to claim Earth with the help of Loki and now that they possessed it, they refused to relinquish it.

The thought of Loki made Thor's throat tighten. Merely his brother's name cause a wave of conflicting emotions in Thor. His brother, he beloved brother, whom he had grown up with. His brother who had betrayed not only Thor but all of Asgard. His brother who had led the Chitauri to Earth only to be cast from his thrown by Thanos within a month.

"You cannot take every defeat so hard," said Fandral, patting Thor on the back. "They are difficult and exhausting, yes, but we must continue forward with your head held high."

"Forgive me," said Thor. "Every defeat is another battle we must fight. It is hard to remain in good cheer."

"We do not expect you to remain in good cheer," said Fandral. "But remember that you cannot dig yourself into a hole. Always look forward, Thor. Forward to the day when we will free the human race."

Thor glanced around and realized that they were all watching him—Fandral, Sif, Volstagg, Hogun—waiting for him to respond. They walked along the bridge, the water rushing beneath them with a wild roar and the golden city of Asgard rising above them in the distance.

"Thank you, my friends," said Thor. "You know what I need to hear."

Even though he said this, Thor's grip on the handle of Mjolnir did not lighten in the slightest.

* * *

Hands in the pockets of his gray jacket, the weathered man wandered the street of the Chicago Colony. He did not meet the eyes of the people passing by, but stared off somewhere above the rooftops of the apartment buildings as if he might find some answers in the sky. He did not notice when a young man bumped into his shoulder and apologized. Rather than respond, he continued walking down the crowded street as though nothing had happened—he pretended not to feel the lightness in his pants pocket where his wallet had been seconds prior.

Tony Stark had mastered the art of not drawing attention to himself. It was something that had taken him time to learn. Back when he was Iron Man, Tony had demanded attention wherever he went and now—now Tony kept his head turned and pretended that the rest of the world did not exist. That way the rest of the world could forget that he existed too.

The Chicago Colony was not as brutal as the Boston Colony. According to the rumors of his neighbor, the Boston Colony Overseers enjoyed the brutality of the Chitauri. The Overseers would actual invent tales of treachery in order to watch the Chitauri punish the human slaves. The Chicago Colony was not so brutal. Punishments were administered to those who did not do their work and those who tried to escape, but none of the Overseers were outright cruel. They did their jobs of money and comfort—not for pleasure. There was violence in the streets, of course—robberies, muggings, rape, murder—but what else did the Overseers expect? The slaves needed food and there wasn't enough to go around.

Tony took a right at the street corner and pushed open the wooden door of his apartment building. The Chitauri officer at the desk watched Tony through squinted eyes as it inserted the needle into Tony's hand and drew a drop of blood. The Chitauri released a high-pitched sound of approval—verifying that Tony did, indeed, live in this apartment building—and Tony headed towards the stairs.

As his free day came to a close, Tony had to prepare for working in the fields the next day. He wanted to get a good meal in and a good night's rest before he spent eighteen hours generating food for the Colony. Two days ago, one of the men in Tony's schedule had decided to skip work because he was ill. The Chitauri had dragged the man from his bed and let one of their keels, half-dog half-cyborg, eat him alive. The man's screams had filled the streets for a good hour before he had the decency to die.

Tony reached the fourth floor of the building and exited the stairwell. None of the apartment buildings in the Chicago Colony were five star quality. In fact, calling the apartment buildings any star quality was an exaggeration. Only the Helio apartments were worthy of a couple stars—but the peeling wallpaper, moldy shower ceilings, clogged drains, stale-smelling sheet, and damp carpets were enough to turn any once-billionaire away. Unfortunately, Tony didn't have much of a choice. It was either the apartments or the streets—some nights Tony wondered if the streets might be more comfortable.

"Anthony, is that you?"

Tony turned to see his tall, ginger-haired neighbor, Heather, leaving her apartment. She beamed at Tony, showing all of her teeth.

"How are you this afternoon?" asked Heather.

"Wonderful," said Tony, stepping past her to the apartment door labeled 406: Anthony Serkin (which was Tony's alias in the Chicago Colony).

"Glad to hear it," said Heather. "Today was you free day, correct?"

"Yes," said Tony. "Now another nine days of hard labor."

"Cheer up," said Heather. "At least you have a free day. My next three free days have been taken away because my overseers didn't think I was working hard enough."

Tony felt sorry for his neighbor, but he didn't see the need to swap stories of slave-labor with her. If she thought three missed free days were dreadful, he hated to think what her reactions to his stories would be—his stories back from the days before he had learned to avoid attention. Back when every overseer despised him and every keel gnashed its teeth as Tony walked by. Oh yes, Tony had plenty of stories to tell.

He opened his apartment door and, with a quick farewell to Heather and something that resembled a smile, Tony stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him. He stood alone in the small bedroom/living room/kitchen/laundry room and released a long breath. No matter how many times he had come home from a free day and been faced with the tiny, cramped apartment, Tony had not gotten used to it. He had grown accustomed to the expanse of his mansion—the one room-one bathroom apartment was not enough.

He collapsed on the bed, the springs groaning under his weight.

Another day gone by quietly. Nothing to worry about and nothing to fear. Iron Man had died in the nuclear explosion along with Captain America and Hawkeye.

* * *

It was more than dangerous to navigate through the ruins of New York City. Every piece of rubble threaten to come down on Maisie Wilcox if she took a single wrong step. But that wasn't the worst of it. As she moved deeper and deeper into New York City, Maisie wishes she had been given a suit or a gas mask or something to protect her from the chemicals. She couldn't see them or feel them, but her mind knew that the chemicals were there and it made her skin crawl with fear. She held her breath, hoping that might minimize the amount of toxins to which she was exposed. Of course, Maisie knew the breathing in the chemicals had little to do with it—just her skin was enough. She might end up one of those returners who screams as her skin burned and blistered. Or, as little hope as she had, she might be one of the returners who was unaffected by the chemicals.

Maisie clambered up the side of a piece of concrete (possible once the foundation of a building). The massive piece of concrete was in a pile of four similarly shaped pieces of rubble, a dark chasm resting between them that Maisie felt nervous getting too close to. She walked across the slanted piece of foundation and moved to the highest point. She stood on the corner of the slanted concrete and scanned the rubble for any sight of the power source. There was no eerie blue light as far as Maisie could tell.

She could see a couple of the other humans in the distance, searching the rubble as she was. One of them, a large, muscular man, kept looking about nervously and Maisie wondered if he was thinking of running for it, Maisie silently advised him against it. The tracking chips weren't just for show.

Satisfied that she could not find the power source, Maisie turned around and prepared to climb back down. She hopped over some broken glass and, almost losing her footing, grabbed onto a piece of wood to stop herself from falling off the slanted cement platform. However, the piece of wood that she grasped for was not attached to anything. Maisie let out a cry of horror as she lost her balance and stumbled backwards.

Her foot his a piece of debris—a rock?—and Maisie was tumbling downwards towards the chasm. She let out a shrill screams and fell, with a heavy crunch.

Maisie's back spasmed with pain and she rolled over, groaning, to see what she had landed on. Several pieces of wood. Good to know. She tossed a broken piece of wood away from her and, ignore the pain in her back, staggered to her feet. It wasn't a large space that she had fallen into—but it was dark and dank, filled with pieces of wood and rock. The chasm wasn't actually as deep as Maisie had imagined. If she found something to stand on, she could probably pull herself back up onto the concrete.

She waded through the debris, kicking pieces of wood out of her way as she looked for something larger. So far she had found nothing. It was hard to see far in the darkness and Maisie had to examine every inch of the chasm in case she had missed something in the pitch black. Her search revealed nothing, however, and in her frustration, Maisie kicked a rock.

The rock soared across the chasm, hit a concrete wall and then fell, knocking a board over or something. Maisie began to turn away when, suddenly, the chasm was filled with light. But not just any light—a blue light.

Maisie's heart stopped.

Impossible. Absolutely impossible. How many people had come to New York City searching for the power source? How many people had returned without ever finding it? There was no way. No way that she would be the one. No way.

Slowly, Maisie made her way across the chasm. The closer she came the more brilliant the blue light. She had to shield her eyes as she stood over it and moved some of the wood pieces out of the way. The blue light became brighter and started to take form, a brilliant, shimmering, blue cube grasped in a human hand.

Maisie shrieked and leapt backward, grabbing a piece of wood with which to defend herself. She stared at the hand, waiting for it to move, but it did not. It clutched the blue cube and did not twitched in the slightest.

Now that she had time to think, Maisie realized that the hand was connected to an arm and the arm connected to a shoulder. The rest of the body—or whatever the shoulder was connected to—was buried under the rubble.

Maisie inched forward, little by little, still keeping a piece of wood clutched in her hands in case the arm decided to move at any point. Slowly, she kneeled beside the arm and pulled the pieces of rubble away from the body and she found a torso—a man's torso—connected to the arm and a face. A pale face covered in cuts and bruises. His eyes were closed and his jaw taut, a look of absolute peace on his damaged face.

He was dead, Maisie realized. She was trapped in this chasm with the power course and a dead body. How…pleasant.

It was then, in the blue light of the power source, that Maisie got a good look at the man and, more importantly, the symbol on the man's chest. His outfit was skin-tight and blue with a white star on his chest. It took Maisie a moment to recognize the outfit—but when she did, she let out a low groaned.

"Captain America," she murmured. "Sorry for defiling your grave."

The man made no move to stop her, so Maisie reached out and pried the power source from the dead hero's fingers. The blue energy buzzed against her skin and burned. Maisie gasped and dropped the power source onto her lap. With the fabric of her jeans between her skin and the power source, Maisie no longer felt the pain. She breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed her fingertips nervously. They still burned a little.

A hand closed around Maisie's wrist.

She screamed and leapt backwards, but the hand pulled her closer. Captain America's blue eyes were wide open and he was staring at her. His lips moved soundlessly, as if to say something, but he could not find the words. Maisie screamed again and tried to wrench her hand away, but Captain America's strength was too great.

"Let go of me!"

The power source fell from Maisie's lap and onto the floor, illuminating the whole chasm.

Captain America released Maisie and reached for the power source. She scurried backwards and watched, open-mouthed, as she picked up the power source. He cringed in pain as the energy touched his bare skin, and he used a piece of blue fabric (a mask?) from the pocket to his uniform in which to wrap the power source.

They remained completely still for a minute. Captain America still seemed to be struggling with the concept of speech, while Maisie still trying to recover from the shock of seeing a dead man come back to life. Her entire body was shaking and her heart was racing away from her. She swallowed several times and blinked, trying to make sure that the Captain America in front of her way real and not some chemical-induced illusion.

"Who?" The word came out as a croak, barely a word at all. Captain American tried again. "Who—you?"

"Who am I?" asked Maisie.

The Captain nodded. If possible, he looked even more dead after coming back to life. His pale face, which had seemed peaceful earlier, was etched in shadows and bruises. Dirt and blood streaked his cheeks, nose, forehead, and eyelids. Every movement he made was twitching and uncomfortable, as if he was only just learning how to move again. Maisie was surprised that his build was still in perfect condition—muscular and flawless, even though she doubted a dead man could make it to a gym.

"Who are you?" whispered Maisie.

Captain America pointed to himself. "I asked—first."

Maisie frowned. "What is that?" She pointed to the power source clutched in the Captain's hand.

He shook his head. "You."

She sighed and realized that she wouldn't get anything out of him until she identified herself. "Maisie. Maisie Wilcox."

"Are you—civilian?" asked Captain America.

Maisie frowned, not sure what he meant. "I'm human," she offered.

The Captain shook his head. "Civilian?"

"I'm not an overseer if that's what you mean," said Maisie. She wondered if coming back from the dead was slightly disorienting for Captain America. "I'm a slave just like everyone else."

The Captain's eyes widened in shock. He shook his head.

It finally occurred to Maisie that Captain America might have been dead all this time. For the past six years. Which meant—Maisie stopped herself mid-thought. That was impossible.

"How long have you been down here?" asked Maisie. "Did you come to find the power source too?"

"The missile," said the Captain. "The missile. Are you safe? Did we survive?"

Maisie's heart stopped. "The last thing you remember is the missile?"

Captain American nodded. "Did you—survive—the nuclear—missile?"

"No." Maisie stared. "I'm here on an expedition from the Boston Colony. The Chitauri brought me here to look for the blue power source." Her throat was dry. "It's been six years since the missile. Everyone thought you were dead." She paused. "Were you dead?"

Her heart twisted for him as she watched the news sink in. Surprisingly, Captain America did not scream, fight, or reject reality, as she would have expected a normal person to do. Captain America simply sat down on a piece of rock and said, "Damn. Not again."

* * *

**Review. Please?**


	2. In The Ruins

**Chapter Two: In The Ruins**

The young woman was nothing more than skin and bones. There were pronounced shadows under her eyes that were not healthy on a human and her pale skin was stained by dirt and grime. Her long, white-blond hair fell over the collar of her oversized military jacket, and her scruffy jeans were stuffed into her brown-leather boots, which looked as though they had been worn to the soles and were ready to fall apart at any second. Maisie Wilcox, she had told him her name, looked small and frightened as she stood on the opposite side of the crevice, her hands trembling ever so slightly.

"I'm not going to hurt you," said Steve Rogers. It strained his dry throat to talk.

He decided it was best to remain sitting, afraid that his height would intimidate the young woman. He smiled at her, but that only seemed to unnerve her more.

"You were dead," said Maisie, finally.

"I was unconscious," said Steve. He glanced down at the Tesseract, which was wrapped in his blue mask. "The missile almost killed me."

"You were unconscious for six years," said Maisie. "You woke up when I removed the power source from your hand."

Steve prodded the Tesseract through the blue cloth thoughtfully. "The serum that created me must have been keeping me alive. The Tesseract must have fed energy to my body while I was unconscious." He glanced up at Maisie and smiled. "I'm no scientist. That's the best answer I can come up with. It's purely a wild guess."

"The what?" asked Maisie. Steve's explanation seemed to terrify her more than before.

"The Tesseract," said Steve, gesturing to the blue object in his lap.

"Right." Maisie's eyes drifted towards the gap between two blocks of cement. She was looking for an escape route, Steve realized.

"I'm not crazy," he said quickly. "This has happened to me before."

"Of course it did," said Maisie. "Of course." She was edging away.

"I was frozen in ice," said Steve, quickly. "During WWII. When I woke up, they told me the war is over. And now, you're telling me that this war is over and the Chitauri have won?"

Maisie nodded, slowly. "And humanity is enslaved."

"Enslaved?" The word sent Steve reeling. He couldn't believe it. Humanity? Slaves? Wasn't that the entire point of humanity? They had free will. How could this woman just stand in front of Steve and dully say that free will had been taken from humanity—how could she do that?

"America," said Steve. "America would never stand for it."

Maisie stared at him silently.

"We were raised on the foundations of truth, liberty, and justice," said Steve. He got to his feet and, suddenly towering over the petite Maisie, Steve paced up and down the crevice, still holding the Tesseract him his hand. "We cannot allow for our people to be enslaved. It is not the American way."

"I don't think you understand," said Maisie softly.

Steve turned to stare at her, his blue eyes bright with stubbornness. "What don't I understand?"

"There is no America now."

* * *

The main hall of Asgard was made of stone the color of bronze. The ceilings were high and arching, forming a dome over the throne. Little images had been carved into the ceiling, depicting the Nine Realms and Asgardians of ages past. The Council Members of the King of Asgard crowded around the stone table and peered at the golden image of Earth that had materialized in the air. The Earth was rotating slowly, bit by bit, so that the Asgardians could see every detail of the realm, as described by the all-knowing Heimdall.

Thor leaned forward and examined the land mass that was facing him. "The Beijing Colony," he said. "The largest colony in the world."

"It also experienced the largest death toll in the world," said Hogun. He examined the different dots that had formed on the landmasses that represented North American. "Los Angeles Colony, Chicago Colony, and Boston Colony—is that truly all that remains of the United State of America?"

The model of the Earth, which looked as though it was made of golden dust, spun and Thor caught sight of a northern island and the golden dot that represented the London Colony. Was she in there, he wondered. Only a little more than one-percent of the Earth's population remained, caged in walled cities and let out only to work for the Chitauri. Could Jane be a member of the survive one-percent? Thor allowed himself the barest glimmer of hope.

"Slavery," murmured Sif. Her index finger waved in the air as she pointed at the gold dot of the Willington Colony and then Sydney Colony and then the Perth Colony. "What does slavery feel like? I wonder."

"I do not know," said Fandral. "The Asgardians have never been enslaved."

"It is curious," said Hogun. "Didn't humans enslave one another a couple centuries ago?"

"If my memory serves me well," said Volstagg.

"Irony is a bitter thing," said Hogun. He watched the Cape Town Colony move past him as the Earth rotated.

"I would appreciate irony more if it were not such a terrible thing," said Thor. "So few of them. So few humans remain."

"Irony is the world's greatest tragedy," said Sif.

Thor couldn't agree more. He could still picture his brother, Loki, dressed in green with that ridiculous goat-horned helm, in the final moments before the missile struck. Loki had been smiling, gloating his victory. He would be king. He would rule those puny humans and give them the gift of discipline.

Loki had not been expecting the missile. Thor had known. Tony Stork had informed him over the radio that the government was sending in a missile strike; Thor needed only to stall Loki before the end. In stalling, Thor had succeeded. The look of pure horror that crossed Loki's face when he realized what was coming. Right before the nuclear explosion was unleashed.

But it didn't matter.

In the end, it did not matter—because they were beings beyond the level of nuclear missiles. They were wounded, yes, but not dead.

Thor still remembered pulling the broken piece of Stark Tower off his back and getting to his feet. The Hulk and Black Widow. All that had survived. Everyone else. Every civilian. Dead. All part of the government's desperate and failed attempt to protect humanity. Gone. Sometimes, Thor thought, the sacrifices of being a ruler were too great.

* * *

Dana Miles shifted in her seat and glanced excitedly at her fellow soldiers. Soldiers. For that's what they were now. No longer new recruits who still had to go into the oven. They had baked long enough and now, as she listened to Commander Weston, Dana imagined herself a fully-baked, mouth-watering cookie. The metaphor might have been a little inappropriate right then considering that Commander Weston got to the part of his speech where he told the new soldiers that they were all going to die.

"This is a war," said the commander. He leaned forward at the podium, his green eyes bright and framed with wrinkles. "Some of you will die. Look around. See the faces of your brothers and sisters."

Dana unwillingly glanced at the other soldiers. She made eye contact with a red-haired, white girl. Dana raised her eyebrows while the girl quickly looked away. Against her will, Dana pictured the girl being impaled on a Chitauri weapon. Then, Dana imaged herself in the girl's place. A shiver ran down Dana's spine as she turned back to Commander Weston.

"It is your job," said the commander. "To make sure that the losses in this room are as small as possible."

There were about thirty new soldiers seated in the auditorium, all dressed in the Liame uniform gray pants and gray jackets as Dana. Unconsciously, she reached up and curled her black, fish-tail braid around her hand. If she was lucky, just lucky enough, she wouldn't end up one of the dead soldiers.

"You are representatives of Shield now," said Commander Weston, his voice becoming deeper with passion. "You are warriors of humanity. Your lives will never be meaningless as each step forward you take from this day will be a step towards the restoration of our great Earth. Rise, soldiers, and take your cause at hand."

In unison, as they had been instructed before the initiation, Dana and the rest of the soldiers rose from their seats. They saluted the noble Commander Weston and he saluted them back. No words needed to be spoken beyond that point. They knew what had been at stake. They had seen the Colonies the Chitauri had formed. They had heard stories of the cruelties performed in those Colonies. It was the sworn duty of any Shield soldier to protect humanity, free the slaves from the grasp of the Chitauri, obey orders—they all knew what must be done, there was no need to speak.

"Dismissed," said Commander Weston. He lowered his hand back to his side.

"I was pumped up." Liam Peterson turned to Dana the moment the salute was done. A grin spread across his face and Liam flung his arms around Dana's shoulders. "We're officially soldiers of Shield!"

"You have no sense of dignity," said Dana, though around them others were celebrating the initiation in a similar manner. Dana and Liam were hardly standing out from the crowd.

"Dignity?" said Liam. "We have entered the world of I-could-die-any-day—there is no more sense of dignity." He tugged on the end of Dana's braid playfully. "We should grab dinner."

"I'm having dinner with my father," said Dana.

"Yes," said Liam. "But you have dinner with your father every day. Let's do something special in celebration. Like, I don't know, actually having fun for a change?"

"if you're trying to persuade me, you're fialing miserably." Dana turned away from Liam and started to make her way out of the row of seats towards the exit.

"Congratulations, Dana!" cried Roan, a tall, slender woman waved as she passed by.

"You too," said Dana.

"Do I get a congratulation?" asked Liam.

"No," said Dana. "You just road on the tails of my success."

"Ouch," said Liam. "You know. You're not supposed to say that yourself. It sounds like you're bragging, saying that you're successful enough for the two of us."

Dana glanced over her shoulder and Liam and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

A wide grin spread across Liam's face and he leapt forward to hug her from behind. "My darling! Why haven't you married me yet?"

Dana tried to pry him off her shoulders, but she was smiling at she did so. "Remind me why I'm dating you again?"

Liam released her and stepped back as they made their way up the stairs towards the auditorium exit. Dana smiled and nodded politely at Commander Weston as she passed, while Liam grinned.

"Your green eyes are worth a thousand words, Commander," said Liam. "You speech was moving in its own right, but those eyes. I nearly cried when you saluted us."

Commander Weston smiled fondly at Liam and shook his head. "Congratulations on passing, Peterson." He glanced at Dana and added, "You too, Miles."

"Thank you, Commander," said Dana, pleased that he at least knew her surname.

"I'm trying to convince Dana to come out for a romantic celebration dinner with me," said Liam. "But she keeps insisting that she should have dinner with her father."

"Dinner with one's parent is important," said Commander Weston. "Especially since there are so few parents left in this world."

Liam cringed, while Dana turned to give him a triumphant smirk. "There you go. The commander agrees with me. You're welcome to have dinner with us, you know."

Liam groaned. "Great. Dinner with Mister Miles. I cannot wait."

The look Dana gave her boyfriend was murderous and he quickly redeemed himself by saying, "But if you're the one cooking, how can I say no?" He turned to Commander Weston and said, "Dana's cooking is dee-vine."

Commander Weston smiled. "You two enjoy the night. You will receive your stations within the week, understood."

Dana saluted the commander while Liam thanked the man and made his way to the exit.

"Are you really joining my dad and me for dinner?" asked Dana suspiciously. "Or you just saying that for the commander's benefit?"

"Of course, I'm coming to dinner with you," said Liam. "Just because I enjoy some alone time doesn't mean I don't also enjoy spending time with you and you—cooking."

Dana gave him a scathing look as they walked down the curved, stone hallways of the underground cave system in which the Chicago Sect of Shield was located. Ever since the Invasion by the Chitauri when she was seventeen, Dana had been living in the caverns with her father, who, in his younger years, had worked for SHIELD. She had never experienced the brutality of the Colonies. She had never stepped foot inside the fifty-foot walls and wandered amongst the poverty-stricken streets run by half-beast, half-cyborg Chitauri. Dana knew nothing of that life—and, for her part, she was happier not knowing.

As they walked, Dana reached out a hand and caught hold of Liam's, their dark fingers intertwining. He grinned at her, showing all of his white teeth.

"Congratulations, Liam."

"Congratulations, Dana."

* * *

Natasha Romanoff wrapped her knuckles on the door of Commander Fury's office and waited for his deep, gruff voice to grant her permission to enter. When he did, Natasha pushed opened the door and stepped inside Nick Fury's sacred office. The walls were made of rough stone—dark and dank like the interior of the rest of the cave. There were mountains of black-metal files cabinets along the walls of the office and a mound of paperwork on Fury's desk (which he didn't look too happy about). Fury sat on a metal chair behind the wooden desk, surveying Natasha silently through his one good eye. He still wore that ridiculous eye patch (at least, Natasha considered it a ridiculous eye patch; Clint had dubbed the eye patch "an important factor in Nick Fury's badass levels"). A small, painful smile crossed Natasha's face as she thought of Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye.

"You wanted to see me, Commander," said Natasha, placing her hands behind her back, holding her chin up high, and meeting Nick Fury's gaze directly.

"Yes," said Fury. "The Chitauri have sent another expedition into New York City."

Natasha gritted her teeth. "About time. The last expedition they sent was in July."

"You know what I need you to do," said Fury.

"Yes, Commander," said Natasha. "Prevent the expedition from finding the Tesseract and, if possible, claim the Tesseract for Shield."

Fury nodded, once. "After all this time, we still have no found the Tesseract."

"The explosion covered a massive area," said Natasha stiffly.

"I told them," said Fury. "I told them it was a stupid decision. A stupid _ass_ decision."

"Doesn't matter now," said Natasha sharply. If she spent too long on the subject, it would bring back all the memories she had of Clint and nothing ever good came from burrowing down memory lane. "What matters is that we cannot let them find the Tesseract. One of these expeditions that they send out into that chemical wasteland will end up stumbling across the power source and we cannot allow that."

"Your resolve never wavers, Black Widow," said Fury.

"Never, Commander."

They stood there for a moment in suspended silence. Then, Commander Fury nodded. Natasha did not wait and she turned around and walked out of his office. The door closed loudly behind her, but Natasha did not mind. She had a job to do. A job she had been doing for the past six years. The only job she could do as the last active Avenger—protect humanity from the power of the Tesseract.

* * *

Every inch of Tony Stark ached after an eighteen-hour day of handling livestock in the pastures outside of the Chicago Colony walls. He and the rest of Work Section 144 had been feeding cows, herding sheep, and preparing chickens to be dinner table ready. Tony's entire body ached from the manual labor, but he did not complain. Last time, Work Section 144 had been tasked with handling the Leviathans. Tony had to feed and clean the colossal cyborg-beasts that the Chitauri had brought with them onto Earth. Every time Tony approached the Leviathans, he remembered flying through New York City in the red and gold Iron Man suit, bringing the Leviathan to the other Avengers.

Tony walked down the narrow streets of the south side of the Chicago Colony. He watched some idiot kids playing a game with wooden sticks and some women crowd in a corner gossiping. Whenever people would look Tony's way, he would let his eyes slide over them as though they did not exist, and they would soon forget his existence.

It hadn't always been that way, of course, when the humans were first enslaved, Tony, while shedding the Iron Man costume and growing a long beard to hide his famous face, still had a rebellious streak in him. He argued with the Overseers, he told them when they were wrong. They should whip the woman who tried to protect her child. But every time Tony had spoken out, he had been beaten down by the Chitauri. They'd tried to kill him on several occasions, but, of course, Tony Stark hadn't been Iron Man for no reason. As time went on, however, the fights became more and more meaningless to Tony. Until, in the end, he faded into the background of people's minds and was forgotten. Buried six feet under just like the broke Iron Man suit that had saved Tony from the nuclear missile.

The sky was gray today, Tony noted. The clouds had not yet let loose the rain, but as they became darker and darker, Tony knew that it would not be long. He didn't mind if he was still a fifteen minute walk from his apartment. He welcomed the rain. The other human slaves would clear the streets and Tony could walk back alone in the ankle-deep mud, ruining another pair of perfectly good boots.

Tony glanced down at the black-leather boots he was wearing currently. They weren't quality shoes as far as style and make went, but they had held together for the past year pretty well. Tony was impressed. He might have to buy some more of the brand if they had any at this year's Distribution. Twice a year, the Overseers handed out news clothes, blankets, lights, cooking supplies to whoever could give the most. Usually, the Distributions ended in bloodbaths. Last year one mother tore hair from the head of an old lady in an attempt to get a woolen blanket for her son. Tony remembered vividly as he stood towards the back of the mob, watching with a curdled sickness in his stomach.

"Iron Man?" asked a soft, boy's voice.

Tony continued walking. He looked neither left or right to see who had spoken, eyes straight ahead. He had learned that when people mentioned Iron Man, they were talking about the dead war hero, not about Tony Stark himself.

"Mister Iron Man!"

This time, Tony was certain that the little boy—who he could see out of his peripheral vision—was definitely talking to him. Tony walked a little faster.

The boy scurried after Tony, dragging another little figure after him. Tony's peripheral vision told him that the boy was dragging a little blond girl with him as well.

"Mister Iron Man!" repeated the boy.

Tony realized he had no choice but to acknowledge the boy, lest he walk all the way back to his apartment building with the little brat shouting "Mister Iron Man! Mister Iron Man!" after him. Tony was certain that such a thing would not arouse suspicious at all. (Note the sarcasm.)

"Who are you talking to?" asked Tony, turning around.

The boy was probably about thirteen or fourteen in age. His dark hair was in desperate need of a haircut and it fell into his eyes, while his jeans were two sizes too big and needed to be held up by a belt. The little girl was probably about six or seven, with a soft round face and golden hair. Every inch of exposed skin on the boy and on the girl was covered in grime, as thought they had spent week rolling about in mud rather than bathing. They had the same round, brown eyes, looking up at Tony with calf-like innocence.

"Mister Iron Man," said the boy. Now that he had caught Tony, he seemed out-of-breath and unsure what to say. In the end, the boy spewed out: "We all thought you were dead."

Yeah, thought Tony, that was the point. However, Tony didn't voice his thoughts. Instead, he smiled at the boy and girl and said, "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

The boy shook his head. "No. I used to watch you all the time on the TV. This was before Stacey was born." The boy squeezed the girl's hand. "But I remember your face. Where's your suit, Mister Iron Man?"

"_Mister_ Iron Man died in the nuclear explosion," said Tony, flatly. "We all saw on the TV. Him and all the Avengers. They died."

"Not all the Avengers," said Stacey suddenly. Her voice was squeaky and she smiled nervously after she had spoken.

"That's right," said the boy. "The Hulk, Black Widow, and Thor survived—why couldn't Iron Man?"

"Don't ask me," said Tony irritably.

"But you're Iron Man," cried the boy. "I know. I saw your face on the TV. You were my favorite hero."

Tony had no idea what to do to convince the boy that he was not Iron Man—which was hard to do, since Tony was, in fact, actually Iron Man. The boy must have been an avid fan if he could remember Tony's face from television screen over six years ago.

"I liked Captain America too," said the boy, completely unaware of what kind of painful memories he was bringing up for Tony. Already, Tony could see the face of the overly optimistic super-soldier. The boy was grinning with excitement. "Captain and America and you in the Avengers together was fantastic. Were you two best friends? I bet you were best friends."

"We fought constantly," said Tony.

"What?" The boy frowned.

"You have the wrong man," said Tony, turning away from the boy. "Iron Man died six years ago, you brat."

The sudden insult seemed to stop the boy in his tracks and Tony was able to make his getaway. He sped-walked down the street, weaving in and out of the crowds. He was aware that he was drawing attention to himself, defying his policy of the last two years, but anything was better than having to spend another second with that clueless Iron Man fanboy. The kid was stupid. The last true superhero had died six years ago wearing a red, white, and blue skin-tight suit—thre was no point in fantasizing over things long past.

As Tony made his way down the street, a shrill, boyish voice called out after him. "My name's Jack, by the way!"

* * *

The scream of the whistle, calling the expedition back, filled Maisie's ears. She clasped her hands over her head and sucked in her breath, trying to ignore the piercing pain it caused her brain. When the whistle-sound stopped, Maisie Wilcox lowered her hands to her sides and sighed. She surveyed the soldier in front of her—Captain America, though he had insisted that she call him Steve. She didn't know what to do about this idiot. He had the power source still wrapped in the blue mask—Maisie couldn't decide if she should try and take the power source from him, deliver it to the Chitauri and receive a lifetime in the Helio without worry of slave labor ever again.

Somehow, Maisie didn't think giving the Tesseract to the Chitauri was the best option. But she couldn't ignore the whistle either.

Maisie glanced around the chasm, examining the concrete walls for a way out. She supposed if Captain Am—Steve gave her a lift up, she could climb out. Steve looked tall enough to climb out without her aid.

"I've got to go," said Maisie, glancing back at the soldier in his ridiculous blue suit.

"Where?" asked Steve.

"Back," said Maisie.

"To the Chitauri?" Steve looked scandalized at the thought. "But they're your captors?"

"They make sure we cannot escape," said Maisie. "If I don't return, they'll send people after me. I need to go. _Now_."

Steve shook his head. "You can't go back. You said it yourself. They treat you terribly in the Colony. If the Overseers are as brutal as you describe, you can't go back. I don't even see how you would want to go back."

"You've been unconscious for six years," said Maisie. "There's no way you could understand." She moved towards the cement wall and slapped it lightly with you hand. "I need a boost up."

"You can't go back," said Steve.

Maisie gritted her teeth and turned back to Steve. "Weren't you the one ranting to me about free will earlier? Free will, peace, justice, and the American way? Well, this is my free will. I want to go back to the Chitauri so I don't get hunted down like an rabid animal in a half-hour. So help me out of this fucking chasm so I can exercise my free well."

Steve swallowed, but he did not yield. "How can it be free will when you return to the Chitauri only because you are scared?"

"It's my free will to stay alive," said Maisie.

"I'll keep you alive," said Steve.

Maisie rolled her eyes. "Stop being stupid. You don't understand. I'll be hounded by the Chitauri wherever I go. You can't protect me forever."

"Yes, I can," said Steve. "I'm Captain America."

"I told you," said Maisie. "America doesn't exist anymore. You're Captain Nowhere."

A muscle in Steve's jaw leapt and Maisie could tell she was getting to him. However, Steve just stepped forward and said, "America is more than just a country. In all honesty, as a country, America turned out to be not so great. But America is still an idea. And idea of free will—_true_ free will, peace, liberty, and justice. Even if the country had disappeared, I still believe in the idea of America and therefore, by my own moral standards, I cannot allow you to return to slavery. By my honor as an Avenger, I will protect you from any Chitauri that follow you."

Maisie and Steve stared at one another, neither one willing to budge an inch. They remained in the darkness, illuminated only by the blue glow of the Tesseract, watching one another with fiery eyes.

"You may believe in America," said Maisie. "But I believe in the world I live in. No one has survived running away on an expedition to New York City and I doubt I will be the first. Help me out of this chasm." It was an effort to say the last word. "Please."

Steve stared at her for a moment, his lips pulled back into a grimace. Maisie could see the internal struggle raging inside of him, but she did nothing to ease his turmoil.

Finally, Steve said, "I'll help you out."

Maisie smiled at him, but he did not move to help her right away. Instead, he started to shift through the rubble at his feet until he found a round, slightly concave piece of metal. It took Maisie a moment to realize that he had found his shield. Steve examined the front of the shield and seemed to realize with disappointment that the painted image had disappeared, perhaps taken off by the blast of the nuclear explosion.

Satisfied, at least, that he had found his weapon. Steve moved to the cement wall and, after slinging the shield over his back, he placed his hands together, forming a sort of step for Maisie. She placed her foot in his hands—he ignored the mud caked on the sole of her boot—and he lifted her upwards. There was a rush of air—Maisie felt her heart race as her hands scrambled for something to hold onto. The palms of her hands landed on rough concrete and Maisie for herself chest-level with the ledge of the cement block. She hauled herself upwards, Steve giving her an extra push, until she was kneeling on the steep slant of the broken building foundation.

Still terrified that she might fall back into the chasm, Maisie edged around and glanced down at Steve.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

He jumped.

That's all it took for him to get out of the chasm. A jump. And he was standing on the cement block beside Maisie. He glanced down at the shocked expression on her face and he smiled wryly.

"I _am_ Captain America."

"Yeah," said Maisie, getting to her feet. "But there's a massive difference between hearing about your powers or seeing them on TV and seeing your powers in person."

Steve started to climb the cement block and Maisie followed him. It was a difficult upwards trudge and, at one point, she lost her balance and started to tumble backwards, but Steve reached back and caught her by the wrist, holding her upright.

"Thanks," murmured Maisie.

They reached the top of the cement block and they could see the full expanse of the obliterated New York City. For Maisie, the sight was nothing more than harsh reality, but when she glanced at Steve, she saw the horrified disbelief in his blue eyes. To Steve, she realized, only yesterday New York City had been in its full glory.

"It's real," said Steve, softly. "It really is all gone."

Maisie nodded. "I wasn't lying."

"I didn't think you were," said Steve. "But that didn't stop a part of me from hoping that you were."

"I need to get back," said Maisie.

She inched along the ridge of the cement block back towards the side that she had clambered up earlier. She glanced back and saw that Steve was still taking in the ruins. Maisie felt a wave of pity for the man, but, of course, pity only went so far. The Chitauri were waiting.

Maisie hopped down from the ledge and landed on a slab of wood—it made a long _thud_ when she landed. She started back across the rubble, slipping and sliding on the loose stones and crumbling piece of plaster. The return to the Chitauri was slow and agonizing and she fell to her knees at several points, the concrete ripping open the palms of her hands. She was perhaps halfway back to the Chitauri when Captain America decided to catch up to her.

"Please," said Steve. "Don't go back."

Maisie continued walking without turning her head. "Hi, Steve."

"I know things have changed," said Steve. While Maisie's movements her jerky as she moved across the rubble, Steve walked smoothly over the breaking piece of wood. "I know that the rules of the world have changed. But that still doesn't make slavery right. No one should willingly go back to slavery, Maisie. You should be kicking and screaming, begging me to take you away."

"I want to live," said Maisie. "Better to live a slave than to be made an example of and die violently for all to see."

"What happened to things like freedom?" asked Steve. "What happened to dying for what you believe in?"

"Dying for what you believe in is something idiots do," said Maisie. "I believe in life—and that's the one thing I don't have to die for."

Steve sighed. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?

"I'm stubborn?" asked Maisie. "You're the one who won't let me go about my business."

"I'm trying to save you."

"I don't need saving," said Maisie.

"You think that heroes are idiots," said Steve. "There's something wrong with that."

"I get it," said Maisie. "I'm screwed up. I'm cold and isolated and I don't give a damn about anyone but myself. I get it. But what you don't get, Captain, is that I _like_ being this way. I like being alive to call all those crucified heroes idiots. I don't want to live any other way."

Steve didn't respond. They walked along in silence, the sound of their shoes sliding against the rubble filling the still air. It was a little bit ridiculous, Maisie thought, to be walking through the chemical ruins of New York City with a man in a skin-tight red, white, and blue suit and a metal shield.

"Was the costume really necessary?" asked Maisie.

"Huh?" Steve glanced down at his suit. "It's about the image. I'm selling America hero. I can't just look like an average guy on the street."

"Oh."

Maisie stopped walking.

Steve came to a halt beside her, a curious expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know where we are," said Maisie.

Silence stretched between them.

"Shit," said Maisie. "I'm supposed to be going back. Shit. I'm already late. If I don't get back soon they're going to kill me." She paced from side to side on the piece of metal that she stood on. It creaked under her weight. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Was it this way? No. I think I'd remember that." She gestured to a broken street sign.

"You don't remember where you came from?" asked Steve.

"No…" Maisie shook her head. "Shit."

"Okay," said Steve. "First, you need to stop saying 'shit'. That's not a nice word for a young woman to say."

The look Maisie gave Steve was murderous.

"Secondly," said Steve. "Do you remember where the sun was when you left the Chitauri. Maybe we can use the east and west to find which direction you came from."

"It was midday," said Maisie.

Steve grimaced. "I don't know."

"They're going to kill me," said Maisie. Her hand were shaking violently. "They're going to send the other slaves back into the ruins and this time the slaves will be armed."

"Aren't they afraid that the slaves will rebel?" asked Steve.

"No," said Maisie. "The Chitauri can defeat armed slaves easily. But me. Me alone against armed slaves—I don't stand a chance." Her voice was rising to hysterics and she kept opening and closing her fists. She breathed in rapid pants as her heart raced out of her chest.

"Maisie." Steve reached out and caught hold of Maisie's wrists with his much larger hands. "You will not be facing these people alone. I told you, I will be with you. I will keep you safe. No one will touch you as long as I am here."

Maisie had stopped shaking at least. She lifted her gaze to meet that of Captain America and she said, "Why do you want me to come with you so much?"

"You saved me from the Tesseract," said Steve. "And slavery runs against every moral I have ever known. I cannot allow you to return to the Chitauri and I cannot leave you behind."

All sense of self-preservation told Maisie to return to the Chitauri. But, of course, she did not know where the Chitauri were. They would try to kill her. And, on her own, Maisie had no means of survival. She stared up at Captain America and, with a begrudged truth, Maisie realized that she need him now. If she wanted to live, she needed him.

"Fine," said Maisie. "Let's go."

A wide grin spread across Steve's face and he released her wrists. "I'm glad." He opened his mouth to say something else, but then he paused and looked around. "Um. What way should we go now?"

Maisie stopped and glanced around at the shapeless ruin of New York. She sighed. "I don't know. As it turns out, I have no sense of direction."

Steve looked about nervously. "Er. I think I have no sense of direction either."

* * *

Vanaheim was a realm of trees as Loki Laufeyson had quickly learned. Every inch of the world was covered in thick, green trees, their branches spread out like spider webs over the head of the Vanaheim residents. The only places that were spared the treetop cover were the cities—which were less of cities and more of thatched roof villages. Vanaheim was not a technologically advanced realm, but one that relied on magic. It's residents did not require flashlights, computers, cellphones, guns, or battleships when they could perform magic to fulfill all these needs. The people of Vanaheim went about simple, peaceful lives and felt no need for a ruler—a fact that irked Loki to no end.

There was no point to ruling senseless people like those of Vanaheim. They would see his position as king as a pleasant title with no consequence. He could try to rule them by force, but, when provoked into action, the magicians of Vanaheim were without mercy. Rather than stir up a struggle on Vanaheim, Loki decided to wait in silence there.

Loki tapped his long, pale fingers on the rim of his glass and glanced around the bar. The people of Vanaheim were all chatting happily, sharing stories of their gathering days. Loki loathed the simplicity of their stories—hunting trips that provided no fruit, nests that did not contain eggs, and trees that were eaten by termites in the center. Their stories meant nothing to Loki. Such small things were beyond his concern. No, Loki's eyes looked beyond the simplicities. He had been born to rule, not hunt in a forest.

Not that Loki had ever ruled in Asgard. That was cruelty of Odin. Odin had raised both Loki and Thor to accept the throne, but Odin granted the throne to only one—Thor. Thor, who, as it turned out, was Odin's true son. Loki was nothing more than an adopted child who should have been left to die in the cold.

So there it was. The problem. Odin had raised Loki to be a king, but then denied Loki a throne. There was so much potential and expectation in Loki and it had all been ripped from him before he even had a chance to prove himself. Rejected for all that he was, Loki had been forced to abandon Asgard and turn to his own methods to achieve his much-deserved throne.

And he had possessed a throne once.

On Earth. The realm filled with those puny, easily-breakable humans.

Loki had made a deal with Thanos, the leader of the Chitauri, for an army. With that army, Loki had invaded Earth, despite humanity's best efforts to stop him with the Avengers. In the end, it was humanity who sabotaged itself—which served only as further proof as to why the humans needed Loki's rule. The nuclear missile, instead of killing all the Chitauri and Loki—only succeeded in murdering half the Avengers. And breaking the other half beyond repair. Only a segment of the Chitauri army had been vanquished by the missile and Loki, being a near god, was merely wounded.

The victory was his. The throne was his. The humans were defeated and the Chitauri ruled on Earth. Loki, finally, had a chance to show Odin that he was the proper son—he was the stronger son.

Until Thanos betrayed him.

And now here he was, thought Loki, spending his nights scouring the bars of Vanaheim in search of something that could bring him back his former glory.

It was a long wait.


	3. Across The City

** Chapter Three: Across The City**

The broken floor groaned under the weight of Steve Rogers. He frowned and eyed the floor suspiciously before turning to the small woman standing on the ground below him.

"Why would they send humans after you?" he asked.

Steve extended a hand to Maisie Wilcox. She took it and he hauled her up over a metal window frame and onto a splintering wooden floor. For a moment, they rested. Maisie took deep, wheezing breaths as she glanced around the ruins of New York City, searching for any sign of their pursuers. They had seen the human slaves, ones who had been given weapons (guns) by the Chitauri and told to hunt the slave who had not returned (Maisie)—the person who brought back Maisie's head would receive a lifetime in the Helios. If she had been on her own, Maisie had no doubt that she would have had her head blasted in by a bullet. However, Steve had led Maisie through the rubble, using his inhuman strength to speed up their flight.

"Have we lost them?" Maisie asked.

"Not for long," said Steve, glancing over his shoulder as he jogged across the broken floor and jumped down onto a metal beam that was sandwiched between piles of rubble. Steve glanced up at Maisie and held out his arms. "Jump."

The first time Steve had asked Maisie to jump to him, she had been reluctant. Actually, Maisie had point-blank refused. The only reason she had leapt across the crevice was that the human slaves were not far behind. As the flight dragged on, Maisie had learned to trust Steve and his superhuman strength a little more.

With her feet, Maisie pushed off the edge of the platform and flew through the air towards Steve. Her heart twisted—for a brief second, she thought that she hadn't jumped far enough. Steve would miss her and she would splatter on the ground. But, without fail, Steve caught Maisie by the waist and placed her on the metal beam beside him.

"See," said Steve, grinning. "Easy."

"Keep going," said Maisie, trying to ignore the ringing sensation in her head. "The chemical remnants of the missile may not bother you, but every second longer I spend here, I'm afraid I am going to be burned."

Steve glanced at her. "The Chitauri send you into a still nuclear city to locate the Tesseract?"

"A new expedition is sent each month," said Maisie.

"But doesn't the chemicals affect you?"

Maisie sighed. "Around half of the expedition returns and dies of exposure to dangerous chemicals. That's why they will send human slaves into New York City to look for the Tesseract instead of the Chitauri. They would rather human beings die from exposure than the Chitauri."

As they jogged across the metal beam and scampered over a broken fence, Steve glanced back over the ruined city.

"It is the life of a slave," said Maisie. "We are expendable."

Though there was a fire in his eyes, Steve didn't respond as he jumped front the edge of the fence onto the broken side of a building. Clumsily, Maisie copied his jump. Steve caught her hand easily and pulled her up onto the platform beside him.

"You are not expendable," said Steve. "No human being is expendable."

Maisie stared at him for a moment, neither one of them moving. Then, she said, with all the bitterness of six years, "Tell that to the Chitauri."

Steve glanced at her, but Maisie refused to look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, where, ever so faintly, she could see the end of the destruction. Steve took a deep breath and said, "I would tell them. If it was the Chitauri chasing me and not human beings, I would turn around right now and give them a piece of my mind."

"But it's not," said Maisie, flatly. "Humans are hunting humans."

Steve nodded. "It's sickening. Sickening that humanity has been reduced to this state. How could this happen? Who would agree to hunt you? We should never—why don't they just say 'no'?"

"Because," said Maisie. "We wish to live."

They clambered down another metal slope. Maisie's foot hit a loose piece of rock and she stumbled forward, arms failing about wildly. Steve caught her wrist to stop her from crashing into a pointed piece of broke metal. Breathing a sigh of relief, Maisie pulled her arm from Steve's grasp and made the last two steps to the bottom of the incline.

She stood there for a moment ,trying to push the dizziness from her mind. The sky looked incredible blue and almost blinding when she looked up and Maisie had to blink rapidly to protect her eyes. The landscape seemed to run together, all the debris looked the same.

Steve reached out and caught her shoulder. "I can carry you, you know. You look ready to pass out."

"You don't have to," said Maisie. She tried to push the dizzy spell away.

Steve glanced back at the way they had come, while they could not see their pursuers over the pieces of broken metal and stone, they knew that the threat was there. Steve turned back to Maisie and said, "I thought you wanted to live."

The look Maisie gave him was murderous. She wanted to throw it back in his face, tell him that she was more than capable of surviving this flight of her own power. However, she could remember all the times that Steve had pulled her up onto a platform, caught her mid-jump, and saved her near-injury accidents. She knew that she would not have gotten far if Captain America had not been with her. Besides, her arms and legs felt dead. If she had to walk another step, her might collapse in upon herself. However, the idea of being carried by a man in a red, white, and blue skin-tight suit was not at all appealing.

Maisie sighed. "If you drop me, I will kill you."

Smiling ever so slightly, Steve slid the shield from his back and extended his other hand to Maisie. She took his hand, though every fiber of her being wanted to refuse.

In one swift motion, Steve swung Maisie onto his back. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gritted her teeth—he gave her a second to be settled and then he was running.

* * *

The Iron Man suit hummed in rhythm with Tony Stark's body. He could feel its encasing—metal and machine, and yet, something more. The Iron Man suit was an extension of Tony's will, there was life in that suit—life and power. He hovered above the streets of New York City, watching the army of Chitauri descend from the hole in the sky. The Chitauri were everywhere. Like flies, they filled the streets and buildings and skies of Manhattan, infesting every corner, leaving the bodies of innocent civilians in the wake of their destruction.

Using the magnifying lens of his suit, Tony could see the details of every corpse—the split open skull of a woman, who clutched the bruised body of her child, a businessman with his head separated from his neck, the split open stomach of an elderly man. There was no way to count the numbers of the dead.

The Avengers were trying. They were trying so hard. Thor clung to the tip of the Empire State building and fired round after round of lightning at the Chitauri who entered New York City through the portal. Hawkeye was perched on the edge of a building, calling out the lay of the land, while, with an arrow in his hand, slicing open any Chitauri that approached. Captain America, the Hulk, and Black Widow remained on the ground, trying to make a dent in the seemingly limitless Chitauri army.

The Iron Man suit rotated and Tony scanned the city. Where was reinforcements? Where was the police? He spotted them a couple streets over. The burning police cars and the uniformed corpses littered the street so that Tony could not see the ground.

He turned his eyes away and gazed at the open portal. Was there no one else to fight? Was there no salvation for New York City? Did everything depend on the strength of six heroes—for "heroes" was a title they deserved at this point—against an ending army?

"Avengers."

Director Nick Fury's voice buzzed through the microphone, speaking to the team.

The tiniest glimmer of hope ran through Tony's chest. The hum of the Iron Man suit met with the beating of his heart and Tony felt the power surge through him. Alright. They weren't done yet.

"Avengers," said Fury again.

It was then that Tony realized the abandonment of military formalities.

Fury's voice was flat and emotionless. "A nuclear warhead is headed your way. You have three minutes."

Every inch of Tony turned cold with dread. He didn't respond. No one did. What was there to say? Thanks for the heads up? Thanks for letting them know that the United States government had given up on them? What could they say? Nothing.

A void settled in Tony's chest as he hovered over New York City.

Hawkeye had stopped speaking. He fired arrows at the approaching Chitauri, but there was none of the determination in his eyes that there had been earlier.

A hard line had settled on Black Widow's face as she fired two bullets into the brain of an approaching Chitauri. Captain America turned to face an office building where, Tony realized, there were still living people inside. The government hadn't just given up on the Avengers—they had given up on the people of New York City.

"I will stall Loki."

It was not Fury who spoke through the microphone this time, but Thor. Tony glances up at the Empire State Building and saw that Thor had left his post—the blond man was flying through the air towards Stark Tower, a grim expression on his face.

"Good luck," said Tony. His words sounded pitiful and bland to his own ears.

The Hulk pounded one of the Chitauri machines into the side of a building and released a woeful howl. Tony nodded ever so slightly in agreement with the Hulk. He knew that pain. They all possessed it, the same empty despair. Was it really so easy? So easy to abandon these people? So easy to kill your own heroes? So easy to kill your own people? Just say—they're not going to make it—and sent a nuclear missile their way. Was it really so easy?

Tony rolled over in bed, burying his face in the pillow. The clicking, scratchy voices of the Chitauri patrolling the streets filled Tony's ears. He let out a low groaned before the weight of sleep took him again and he slipped back into the nightmare.

The Avengers had done what they could. Thor was battling Loki—brother against brother as their impending doom approached. Loki was completely unawares. Black Widow had been reunited with Hawkeye on the streets of Manhattan. They did not speak a word to one another, but a look—the connection of eyes—was enough. They understood everything the other wanted to say and then they busied themselves with containing the Chitauri threat to New York City as the nuclear warhead approached. The Hulk landed with a crack on the paved street beside Captain America. The Captain saluted the Hulk for the barest moment before embedding the rim of his shield in the throat of one of the Chitauri. Tony managed the skies, making sure that none of the Chitauri tried to escape the perimeter.

The fight went on. No one had suggested fleeing. To flee was to bring the Chitauri away from New York City. The missile would strike, but some of the Chitauri army would still survive. The war would not end. So the Avengers, they fought on.

Tony had called Pepper twice in the last two minutes. She had not answered either time.

He saw the missile in the distance, racing ever close to the city. Tony' stomach dropped out of his chest and he felt the strength leave his limbs.

The last thought he had was of Pepper's ginger hair and the fact that he had been right all along. To be a hero was to die a hero.

The roar of the explosion filled Tony's head.

Tony sat up in bed, gasping for air. The bedsprings groaned beneath the shifting weight of his body. Deep, heavy breaths. In and out. Breathe. A thin sheen of sweat covered Toy's forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

He was used to dreams of that day. They had haunted him for the last six years—whenever he heard a whisper of the Avengers, the heroes that failed Earth, Tony would spend that night plunging in and out of his memories of the past. A drowning man, fighting for his last breath, and all he could see is the long, white body of the missile flying towards Earth.

Tony pressed a hand to his forehead. "Fuck."

He had no memories of what happened during the explosion. He had been knocked unconscious. A day later, Tony had opened his eyes and found himself, still wearing the battered Iron Man suit, buried beneath the rubble that was once the great New York City. With the last dregs of power in the suit, Tony had pushed the debris away. He stood in the chemical, ruined wasteland, protected only by the suit.

Stumbling, like a broken man, Tony made his way through the mounds of rubble to the edge of the destruction. He reached a small cluster of trees and collapsed at their edge. Desperately, Tony shed the pieces of his suit and, using his hands, he clawed at the dirt until he had made a hole big enough to bury the red and gold suit. Like a madman, that was how Tony had been acting. A pissed-off madman. He pounded his fists against the ground and howled for the pain of the ruined city. He cursed them. The government, SHIELD, the Chitauri, Loki—all of them. The Avengers were gone. The people of New York City were gone. Dead. Because the government lost faith, lost faith in the strength of heroes.

Tony rolled out of bed and staggered through the darkness of his apartment. He threw open the door to the cramped bathroom, which contained only a rusted toilet and sink. Tony stumbled over to the sink. Ice-cold water spewed from the faucet down on Tony's hands and, after a moment, he dipped his head down and placed it under the running water. He embraced the pain of icy water falling like sharp needles on the back of his head.

Let the pain come, thought Tony. It was nothing.

He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes and took a deep, shattering breath.

Natasha Romanoff pulled the mask over her face and made sure that the suit covered every inch of her skin—she could not risk exposing herself to the chemical remnants in New York City. She glanced over her shoulder at her squad. Scottie Masterson had already pulled the hood of her suit over her blond hair and was clipping the mask in place. Both Zach and Ridley Mannes were both suited up and were having a joking conversation while Tai loaded her gun.

They crouched in the tunnels beneath the city, asking their last preparations before surfacing. Two years ago, a party of Shield soldiers uncovered an intact path through the sewer system beneath New York City. The members of Shield now used it for a quick entrance to the city—Natasha and her squad now waiting for the clear before entering the ruined above.

"You ready?" asked Natasha.

Tai nodded grimly. The others were set and waiting for Natasha to start the journey into the city. Certain of the others, Natasha moved to the metal ladder and clambered up it, her tight suit making crumpling noises as she moved. Reach above, he found the metal lid of the manhole. She pushed and the metal lid made a grind noise as it moved to the side, revealing the light of day. Natasha blinked through the blinding light and then scampered up the ladder to the surface.

She stood in between two large pieces of a broken building. She had seen New York City a hundred times before, but that did not lessen the pain in the slightest. Natasha turned her head back to the manhole and watched as Scottie, Tai, Ridley, and Zach clambered out of the sewers and into the city.

"My suit itches," said Zach.

"Bear with it," said Tai. "It is a little price to pay for keeping your skin intact."

A shudder ran through the squad as they remembered Agent Connor Fields who had been brought back on a stretched, screaming as his skin blistered and burned.

"Urg," said Zach. "It never changes."

"I think it has changed enough," said Ridley, patting his younger brother on the shoulder.

Zach laughed nervously and glanced at Natasha. She raised her eyebrows and she turned away from him.

"Let's go," said Natasha.

Zach rested his gun on his shoulder and grinned at her. "My favorite part of the month."

* * *

Sweat dripped down Dana Miles's forehead and her legs ached healthily. Her arms and legs pumped in rhythm as she ran around the track. She had spent the morning in Shield's gym, exercising beneath the rough, stone ceiling. She enjoyed the run. As she slowed to a halt, her muscles thanked her for the exercise and she plucked her water bottle from her duffle bag, which rested on the bench. Her hands and legs were shaking ever so slightly, but Dana ignored the quiver and sipped thirstily from the bottle.

"You run like no one else."

A broad-chested man with a stubble-beard stood beside Dana, rummaging through his own bag. He grinned at Dana and held up his water bottle in a mock toast. "You've been running for quite a while."

"A couple hours," said Dana.

"Impressive." The man placed his water bottle down on the bench and then used a small towel to wipe the sweat from his face. "I'm Owen, by the way."

"Dana."

"I've seen you around," said Owen. "You're one of the new soldiers, right?"

"Yes."

Owen sat down on the bench and grinned up at her. "Are you getting your assignment tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"I remember when I got mine," said Owen. "I was terrified they'd want me to go up into the Colony. You have no idea my relief when they decided to put me on guard duty."

Dana stuffed her water bottle into her duffle bag and then slung the bag over her shoulder. "I want to go to the Colony."

Owen raised his eyebrows. "Then you are an impressive woman."

Without bothering to respond, Dana headed towards the showers. Much to her chagrin, Dana was followed by Owen. He grinned as he walked beside her, chatting happily.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"East Hall," said Dana dully.

"No," said Owen, laughing. "I mean—before. I'm from Detroit."

Dana glanced sidelong at him. "Perrysburg, Ohio."

"Nice," said Owen. "We were practically neighbors. I—"

"Owen Nielson—what are you doing to that poor girl?"

Both Owen and Dana turned to see a tall woman with long, ginger hair and bright blue eyes striding across the track towards the two of them. Dressed in a sports bra and workout shorts, she walked with her head held high and a frown twisted on her face. Dana did not recognize the woman and she glanced at Owen, who clearly did.

"Pepper," said Owen, smiling sheepishly.

"That's Miss Potts to you," said the woman. "Nielson, did I not warn you about hitting on women in the gym?"

"We were having a conversation," said Owen. He grinned at Dana, who shook her head in response.

"Dana is not interested," said Pepper, placing her hands on her hips.

"Do you just enjoy shooting me down?" asked Owen, sighing dramatically.

Pepper raised her eyebrows. Owen stared at her for a moment, then a grin spread across his face. He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair.

"I'm going, Pepper," he said. "I'm going."

Dana watched as Owen made his way towards the exit. As soon as he was out of earshot, Pepper turned to Dana with a smile and said, "He does that a lot. He asked me out a week ago and I found him pursuing a couple married women at the gym. He doesn't _mean_ harm by it—he just believes that as an attractive, skilled soldier, the women will flock to him. It's best to keep him in check. Don't worry—I'm used to handling over-confident, genius assholes."

Pepper glanced at Dana, perhaps expecting thanks, but Dana only regarded Pepper suspiciously.

"How do you know my name?" asked Dana.

For a second, Pepper looked confused. Then, she straightened up and smiled. "Liam. He likes to brag about his girlfriend who is the best new recruit."

Dana rolled her eyes. "Does _everyone_ know Liam?"

"Oh, yes." Pepper laughed. "He makes himself known."

"How did you meet?" asked Dana.

"I work with his sister," said Pepper.

"Deborah?" Dana frowned. "You work in the Colony?"

"Sometimes," said Pepper. She smiled, but her smile made it very clear that she was finished discussing that subject. "Are you receiving your assignment tomorrow?"

Dana nodded.

"Good luck."

* * *

"I see it," said Steve Rogers.

Keeping her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, Maisie Wilcox peered over Steve's shoulder. In the distance, she could see the rubble become sparse and brown grass spouted between the debris. Grass meant life, Maisie realized. That meant they were almost out of the wasteland. She smiled.

"You were right," she said. "You're definitely faster."

Steve shifted Maisie's weight on his back and continued to run along the rugged ground.

"You're light to carry," he said, leaping onto a metal frame and running along it.

"Food is scarce in the Colonies," said Maisie. "We harvest what we can and then the Overseers take what they please. We receive the leftovers." Her body lurched awkwardly as Steve leapt from the metal frame onto what resembled the roof of a broken car. "I see the Overseers throwing out food all the time. Whole loaves of bread that just sat in their pantry and went stale."

She knew that he words upset Steve—how could they not. However, Steve did not speak, but continued to leap from one space to the next. Maisie had to appreciate the strength of the super soldier. He was Captain America for a reason, of course, but looking at him, still pale and bloodied after six years of sleep, Maisie didn't have much confidence.

"We're almost there," said Steve.

He made the final jump from the roof of a broken pick-up truck onto the crisp, brown grass. Maisie breathed a sigh of relief and slid from Steve's back onto the ground. The grass crunched under her feet, but the sound was a relief to Maisie's ears.

"We made it," she said, allowing herself a small smile.

Steve smiled as well, though there was something troubling behind his eyes. He looked around, soaking in the brown, shriveled grass and the broken, abandoned houses that were no longer inhabitable, but mere traces of what once was.

"It's all dead," said Steve.

"Yeah." Maisie tried to scuff some of the dirt off her filthy boots. "You get used to it."

Steve's mouth tugged into a frown as he shifted his circular, metal shield onto his back once more. "It isn't something you should get used to."

"I know you just woke up to this world," said Maisie. "But you need to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking back," said Maisie. "There was a time when I would say that the old world was coming back. The Asgradians would break through the lines of Chitauri and rescue us from the chains that bind us. I used to spend every day hoping—we all did. We fought against the Chitauri, we spoke out against their cruelty—we wanted our world back." Maisie took a deep breath, realizing that her speech had become more impassioned as she spoke. She calmed herself and returned to her previous flat, dull tone. "We learned to stop hoping. It took us long, hard years, but we learned that no help was going to come. The old world was gone and this was our world now."

She didn't dare look up at Steve. She didn't want to see the pity in his eyes.

"So don't you dare come here," said Maisie. "Don't you dare start talking to me about right and wrong. Don't you dare try and give us hope—we have been down that road and we know where it leads."

"But it's different now," said Steve. His voice lacked its earlier conviction. "I'm here."

"Oh what?" said Maisie. She laughed bitterly. "The Avengers, Earth's mightiest heroes are going to save us? The Hulk, Black Widow, Thor—none of them died in the nuclear missile. We saw it, on the television screen, they stood amongst the ruins of New York City, alive and well. The Avengers were not wholly broken—or so we thought. But now where are they? Where are the Avengers?"

She felt Steve reach out for her, but Maisie pushed his hand away. She had no need for comfort. But, rather than listen to Maisie, Steve jumped at her, pushing her to the ground, screaming, "Look out!"

Maisie slammed into the rough grass, with Steve's weight on top of her, as a piece of white light flew past where her head bad been moments before. Steve did not stay down for long. He jumped up and pulled his shield from his back, eyes fixed somewhere ahead of him.

"Stay down," he told Maisie, still not taking his eyes from the threat.

There was another blast of white light, which Steve deflected with his shield. The bullet—Maisie recognized it from Chitauri soldiers—bounced off Steve's shield and flew up into the sky. Maisie turned her head to see a group of Chitauri soldier—probably about seven of them in total—moving towards her and Steve.

"I'll keep you safe," said Steve. "I promise."

Maisie opened her mouth to say something, but Steve sprinted forward, deflecting any shots from the Chitauri. Maisie watched him for a moment and then slowly glanced down at her pale arm, she ran her fingers over the dry skin, wondering if she could somehow _feel_ the metal tracking chip.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff crouched behind a broken window frame and peered at the group of human slaves that were wandering amongst the rubble. She always hated the human slaves—they reminded her of her own weakness. She had come from these people, these vulnerable people whose faces were sunken and arms the size of twigs—the signs of malnutrition. The slaves all wore ragged and frayed clothes with boots that were either a size too big or a size too small and looked as though they would fall apart at any moment.

At the time of the Invasion, humans had gone in different directions. There were those who were killed in the initial slaughter, those who joined with SHIELD and moved underground, those who moved to the remote places of the world and lived half-wild for the past six years, and there were those who had undetectable tracking devices placed somewhere in their bodies and enslaved to the Chitauri race. Natasha despised the slaves for their inability to fight. During the initial invasion, all the slaves had to do was fight and fight—better to die fighting that be have their wills submitted to the mercy of an invading race.

"They're armed," said Scottie Masterson, her voice muzzled through the protective mask. She crouched beside Natasha, peering through a gap in the piece of rubble out at the group of four slaves. "With Chitauri weapons."

"Escapees?" asked Ridley Mannes.

"No," said Natasha. "The Chitauri consider armed humans to be a joke."

"Some joke," muttered Zach Hannes. "Do you see me laughing?"

"They only arm the slaves when the Chitauri need a hunt."

Tai Anderson frowned. "What are they hunting?"

"I don't know," said Natasha. She nodded towards the nearest slave—a thin woman with slanted cheekbones. "Let's find out."

It was easy enough for the squad to lure the woman away from the rest. They were well practiced at the routine. Scottie would toss a couple rocks, using the sound to draw the woman in their direction. Then, when the woman was far enough away from the others, Ridley and Zach would create a landslide of debris, separating the woman from the other slaves. The moment she was out of sight, Tai disarmed the woman and clasped a hand over the woman's mouth so that the other slaves could think that the woman died in the landslide. Quick, easy, and it left plenty of time for the interrogation.

They moved the struggling woman away from the others and, when the squad was a safe distance, Tai removed the hand from the woman's mouth. Immediately, the woman started to cry out for help, but Natasha slapped the woman.

"They can't hear you," said Natasha. "And all your shouting hurts my head."

The woman let out a low moan. "Shield."

Natasha neither confirmed nor denied. "Who are you hunting?"

"No one," said the woman. "We're on an expedition."

Tai twisted the woman shoulder back and the woman let out a cry of pain.

"Don't lie," said Natasha. "We know the Chitauri only army you for hunts."

The woman's mouth thinned to a line and, despite her attempts not to, Natasha noticed how skinny the woman was. Her shoulders stuck out at awkward angles and her arms were thin enough for Natasha to wrap her fingers around. Old scars laced around the woman's neck, forming a grotesque spider web where, Natasha suspected, the woman had been burned.

"Who are you hunting?" repeated Natasha.

The woman swallowed. "One of our own."

Natasha raised her eyebrows. "Who?"

"I don't know. She never returned when the Chitauri retracted us from the city."

"Who?"

The woman scowled. "She has blond hair and gray eyes. She walked in front of me on the journey from the Colony to the city. I don't know anything more."

"So they did not discover the Tesseract," said Ridley.

"No," said Natasha. "The Chitauri would have no concern for one escapee slave if they had discovered the Tesseract."

"She's bold to escape," said Scottie. "But stupid. They'll follow the tracker."

"I'm impressed she made it this far," said Zach.

"She won't make it much farther," said Natasha. She turned to stare at the bone-thin woman in front of her. Natasha regretted the next part of the operation, but she had little choice. To bring the woman back would mean to bring a tracker into Shield territory, but to let the woman go would mean exposure to the Chitauri, most slaves would surrender Shield for a chance to live in Helios for the remainder of their lives. Natasha hated having to give the next command, but, for the sake of Shield and the future of humanity, sacrifices must be made.

Natasha lifted her head and nodded to Tai. Without hesitation, Tai broke the woman's neck. The squad watched the motionless body crumple to the ground.

"Let's go," said Natasha. "We have to send the slaves back to their masters."

* * *

**A/N: In my head, Natasha's the one who's willing to make the cruel choices. For the sake of keeping Shield alive, she'll kill innocent people. Um, Tony's the one who has this superiority complex where he portrays this arrogant, self-absorbed guy but some part of him considers himself morally inferior to someone like Captain America. Steve, in my opinion, is stupidly optimistic of humanity. He's that guy who wants to save every single individual even though it could danger a greater population. Pepper is the woman who always thinks that her interference in other people's lives is a good thing, when it can get annoying for other people. I hope I'm portraying the Marvel heroes properly - let me know if I have some character errors. Also, a lot of the slaves suffer from moderate malnutrition - which, hopefully, I can write with Maisie. **

**Review! Please?**


End file.
